 | Old Year Leaves |  |
In Converse.
Who can predict what power for distant daysToward good or ill lies centred in a Thought
Which flashing through the mind unmeant, unsought,
Is uttered suddenly in careless phrase?
Ill that no future good can stingless make
In the effects wrought by its blighting force;—
Great good that floweth from the all-good Source,
The Fount from which all purity we take.
Sometimes thought's mighty aims in secret lurk
And labour silently, their aim concealed,
Until the crisis comes; sometimes revealed
They zealously pursue their varied work.
Reflecting wisely thus may we be taught
Not rashly to express each flippant thought.
| Old Year Leaves | |